Part 8 (2/2)
Oona twisted her mouth to one side. ”Well ... no. Not exactly. I mean, that was one subject we hadn't gotten around to yet.”
”Oh, I see,” Deacon said, sounding much disappointed.
Oona pinched at her bottom lip, considering something. ”But he did show me the book in which such secrets are kept.”
”Book?” asked Deacon, clearly surprised.
”Indeed,” said Oona. ”It is a book with no name. A secret book handed down from one Wizard to the next. I'm sure you must have seen it before, Samuligan, in all of your years of service.”
The faerie servant nodded slowly, almost reverently. ”I have never been allowed to read it. There is a magical binding on the book, much like the curse on the mind daggers, which prevents any faerie from opening its cover.”
Oona nodded. Her uncle had told her as much when he had first shown her the book.
A sudden thought occurred to Oona. What if it is true, and the reason I am a Natural Magician is because I have faerie blood in me? Would I be able to open the book?
Her uncle had shown her the book only a handful of times in her five years as apprentice ... but he had never allowed her to handle it. When he was not using it, the book remained safely hidden away.
”But yes, to answer your question,” Samuligan added in a dreamy sort of voice, ”I have seen the book, to be certain. And what interesting secrets it must hold.” His eyes seemed almost to s.h.i.+mmer beneath the shadow of his hat, as if perhaps the counterspell to the enchantment that kept him bound to a life of service were somewhere in its pages.
Oona could not know for certain that this was what Samuligan was thinking, but she did know that the counterspell to release the faerie servant was not in the book. She had once asked her uncle about that very subject, and he had told her that, so far as he knew, there was no counterspell, and that if there ever had been one, then it was lost long ago. But the Wizard had asked Oona not to give this information to Samuligan.
”But why?” she had asked as the two of them sat together in his study.
The Wizard had replied: ”Because it will destroy any hope that Samuligan might have of ever being free. And neither man nor faerie can live for long without hope. To take that away would be cruel. After all, just because I do not know how to break the curse does not mean a way does not exist.”
”Would you release him if you could?” Oona had asked.
”In a heartbeat,” the Wizard had replied. ”If there was a way to send him back to Faerie as well. But those are two things I cannot do.”
Afterward, Oona had sought Samuligan out and found him polis.h.i.+ng a set of silver teapots by magic in the parlor. As her uncle had requested, she did not mention the knowledge that there was no known counterspell to his predicament. But she had asked Samuligan if he liked his job.
”I have been a warrior and a champion,” he had replied. ”A general in the Queen of Faerie's Royal Army. I have been present at great victories, and even greater loss. I fought against the most powerful of the Magicians of Old.” He paused to gaze admiringly up at the portrait of Oswald the Great. ”I have dueled spells against the greatest of them all, and lived to fight another day.” Samuligan lowered his gaze to the silver teapot and looked into his own distorted reflection. ”And yet in the end, it seems that I have found nothing more satisfying than being a simple servant, in spite of the fact that so many of these Wizards have been such buffoons.” He had grinned at her-that perfectly mischievous grin that seemed to be such a part of his faerie nature. ”I hope you are not a buffoon, Miss Crate, when you become Wizard.”
That had been the most personal conversation Oona had ever had with Samuligan, and she thought now that it had been the most vulnerable he had ever appeared.
At present, Oona looked up from her bed at the faerie servant. The brim of his hat cast the top of his face into complete shadow.
”Could you use your faerie powers to open the tower, Samuligan?” Oona asked.
”The tower is immune to Faerie Magic. It is coated in gla.s.s, and the spells guarding it are too strong by far. It was made to hold faeries inside, remember. I cannot help you here.”
Oona nodded. ”All right then, we have no choice but to use the Wizard's book.”
”You know where it is?” Deacon asked.
A memory drifted through Oona's head like a dream: of peering through the crack of a door ... and her uncle making some motion with his hand, and a bookshelf swinging open.
Oona rose from the bed. ”I need to dress,” she said. ”Both of you, meet me in the study in ten minutes.”
Ten minutes later the three of them stood in the quiet of the Wizard's study. The slumbering dragon-bone desk could be heard breathing beneath the silence. The room smelled of books and ash from the fireplace, and the loan tea saucer continued to hover above the fireside table, endlessly in search of its missing cup. Oona stood in front of the bookcase where she had seen her uncle open the compartment.
”He stood right here,” she said aloud. ”And then he made a motion with his hand.”
”A magical motion?” Deacon asked from atop the desk.
Oona scratched at her head. It was possible, yes. And if that were the case, then they would surely be out of luck. She turned to Samuligan.
”If there is a magical hiding spot, then can you open it, Samuligan?”
He shook his head. ”Not if it is well constructed. Though I can try. First, I will need to determine exactly where the hiding spot is.”
”It is right here,” Oona said, pointing at the row of books in front of her.
Samuligan placed his hand on the shelf and closed his eyes, concentrating. He stood frozen for nearly a minute before at last stepping away from the shelf and shaking his head. ”There is no magical hiding spot there. At least, none that I can detect.”
”But I saw him open it,” Oona said.
”Perhaps the magic is too well constructed for Samuligan to detect,” Deacon suggested.
The faerie nodded that this was possible.
”Or perhaps,” Oona said, running a finger along the spines of the books, ”just perhaps ... the compartment is not magical at all. Perhaps it is ... mechanical.”
Her finger stopped on the spine of a large book ent.i.tled: The Tale of the Really, Really Long Sleep and Ten Other Miserably Dull Tales for Bedtime. Edited by Milford T. Tedium.
”Well, now,” she said, amused. ”Here is a book that no one is likely to attempt taking off the shelf.”
She took hold of the book along the spine and pulled.
Something clinked, followed by several clonks, and a single satisfying creak as the entire shelf swung outward to reveal the hidden compartment behind.
”Ingenious,” said Deacon.
”Bravo,” said Samuligan.
A quick little smile stole across Oona's face, and she peered inside the compartment. The drinking gla.s.s and bottle of scotch were just inside, beside which sat a large black ball. Intrigued, Oona picked the ball up and examined it. It had been painted to resemble an oversize billiard ball. A large figure 8 was printed on it, and beneath the 8 were the words: ASK ANY QUESTION, AND TURN OVER TO DISCOVER THE ANSWER.
”What is it?” Deacon asked.
Oona showed them the large 8 ball, and what was written on it. ”It appears to be some new novelty product my uncle was working on.”
”Ask it a question,” Deacon urged.
Samuligan appeared eager to see the device work as well.
Oona's heart began to pound. Perhaps this magic billiard ball of her uncle's could actually solve the mystery for them. Oona held the ball in both hands and asked: ”Is my uncle alive or dead?”
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